


no ordinary love

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, But whatever, Canon Era, Canon Gay Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV Third Person, Word Count: 1k-1.5k, i wrote this after midnight, its painfully serious for being written so late, therefore none of it should be taken too seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I gave you all that I had inside and you took my love.<br/>I keep trying<br/>I keep crying for you.<br/>-No Ordinary Love, The Civil Wars</p>
            </blockquote>





	no ordinary love

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because there aren't enough Renly/Loras fics for me. Ever. But major spoilers for most of the TV show and also A Feast For Crows but you could still read it if you don't read the books just go to Loras' wiki page it shows all. Anyways un-beta read because my beta of choice was asleep when this was written and I am impatient.

                He knew their relationship was different. It hung on a string, no thicker than the web of a spider, but hangs there despite the wind and the rain, the heavy breaths and the silent tears. It depended on silent glances and quiet touches, on broken gasps and fading bruises. They let it sway, keeping it hidden for the good of themselves and their houses.

                Many of their arguments circled around this fact. Sometimes, drunk on pleasure and victory and perhaps more wine than he is willing to admit, the Knight of Flowers would sit upon his knees and mutter in a hushed voice about how they could rule together, how he could be the king to his king. Said king to be will silence him with a kiss and a well-placed touch, and in the morning the words will be forgotten. But during the days, when it’s his sister’s hand his lover kisses, and not his own, he casts darkened eyes to the ground and prays to all the gods that this could change. But it doesn’t, and the one who shows off everything he owns must be content with the golden warmth that comes from secret, hidden moments.

                When the Lord of Storm’s End starts the fights, they could last for days. For the knight is below him, and even at his worst, dares not challenge his lord when he is angry. The anger follows him like a cloud through the castle, and his knight treads softly on cobblestoned floors, knowing that if he says one wrong word that cloud will throw its rain of sharp words upon him. For while his king may not fight on the training field with the others, his mind is sharper than any man’s sword, and his words can surely cut deeper, kill faster. So the youngest member of the Tyrell family straps down his pride and practically goes on his knees to his lord, calls him king, brushes gentle fingers across his hips. And with a sigh, his lover will lift him to his feet, kiss him softly, and apologize in every way he knows how.

                There is nothing like the way they make it up to each other. Perhaps it has been minutes, hours, days, spent in sullen silences, for they are stubborn like that, but it is all resolved in moments spent hidden in the quarters of his lord. He would writhe underneath the warm mouth and touches of his lover, fall completely apart as he is fucked to pieces by the same man who moments later will press a kiss to his temple and mutter proclamations of love into his ear.

                It seems like the time they have together is never enough but at the same time too sweet, too close, too much, too dangerous, lurking in the shadows and tempting them to forget their duties, forget their families, run from the cold stone walls the force them in on all sides. On these days they drink in the sight of each other, the sound, the taste of each other’s skin, taking all they can without taking too much.  The younger is of course the first to break the moment with an outstretched hand and questioning eyes and his lord is no one to deny him of a kiss or a touch or a single breath. So the moment flees on shaky legs but at the same time they both always knew it must be too good to last.

                And then suddenly the air is thicker and the room is wider and the bed is colder and the world has stopped in a moment. Everything circles on around him but he feels rooted to the ground, growing weaker. He is expected to continue, as if the death of the only man who had cared for him in such a way didn’t even slightly bother him, but he finds it hard, painful to breathe, heart wrenching to open his eyes in the morning.

                For in the safety of his dreams his king is there again, and this time he is a king to others besides him, with a crown glinting on his head and his arms wide open for his Knight of Flowers the way they always were. And he runs to him and it is good and as it should be, and then he places a hand where his king’s heart should be and there is nothing but air as he falls through the image like it’s a ghost. And he supposes it must be.

                When it feels like his face has been set on fire and he is falling, falling from the tower he scaled to leap over the wall in a rage he knows should be contained but he can’t fight it, his last thought is how maybe he will see his lover in the world beyond. He hits the ground hard but not hard enough, forced to stare through swollen eyelids at a sky that seems orange before everything is swallowed by blackness.

                His first thought when he opens his eyes is that he should be dead, that he wants to be dead, that he doesn’t deserve to walk on any ground without his king by his side and this was the gods’ way of telling him. But he’s alive anyways and there’s nothing he can do about it no matter how hard he tries so he decides if he can’t die, he might as well live like a dead man walking. He looks like one too, when he finally catches a glimpse of himself in the steel of a man’s breastplate as he walks through his tent, the raised and boiled and blistered skin pulled tight across his face, and he knows that he has nothing left for him.

                In his dreams his skin is fixed by the drag of his king’s lips across his face, and when he is whole again his face is held in strong hands and met with an unbending and resolute smile. And then he smiles back for real, the only time he does so, for he cannot smile in life when there is nothing to smile at around him. All his joy has been taken from him; the joy of his lover, his king, his face, his fight, and the only thing he has left are his dreams.

                And he is a broken man for it, and a rotting one as well, a weed in a garden of roses. And by the love of the gods does he want to be pulled out and thrown away, thrown into the fire to burn the way he should for failing the only person he loved and the only one who loved him back. He had no right to stand in white when he should be in the colors of the stag, when he should be leading the charge against the Iron Throne. He should be riding proud next to the rightful king, whom he had pushed to the edge of death and beyond.

                Yet if he could not have that, all he wanted was a day with his lord, alone, the way it was when they were happiest. He would trade everything he had, every gold coin and every weapon he owned to be with him for one more day, to return all the kisses and the whispers and then give him more. Loras has no need for a king when all he wanted was Renly, the man behind the crown.


End file.
